


when night is almost done

by windandthestars



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Light Angst, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 16:31:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13884756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windandthestars/pseuds/windandthestars
Summary: They’d spent so many mornings like this making up for lost time, and now all they had was time.  It’s an irony not lost on him.---Will and Mac, a cabin, and (possibly) the end of the world





	when night is almost done

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rebeccavoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebeccavoy/gifts).



> Featuring mild angst and cabin feels. Becca asked for something with snow, but since I don't have anything started and couldn't think of anything plausible (I know, it's ridiculous. I think my muse is lost in a snowbank.) I thought this might be close enough since it's sort of wintery.
> 
> If you can't name something like an Emily Dickinson poem, name it after an Emily Dickinson poem.

He slams the front door shut against the cold and stomps his feet. Mac’s asleep on the window seat, head tipped, resting against the frosty pane of glass, strands of hair stuck to the lacy white pattern.

He smiles, feeling the cold pull of his early morning stubble. He’d been out hoping for breakfast. Returning empty handed had been frustrating. Returning to a scene like this, the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders, the hand clutched around the sleeve of one of his old flannel shirts, made it worth it.

He leans his gun beside the door, not wanting to risk the noise it’d take to settle it in its usual place above the door, and leans down with wind-numb fingers to tug at the laces of his boots. It takes a while, but he manages to pull them free before padding across to the wood stove in his stocking feet.

There’s not much of a blaze going yet. Mac hadn’t crawled out of bed too long ago, but it’s enough to warm him up and bring the blood back to his extremities as he watches tiny flames lick up the side of a pair of logs, the light mesmerizing after a morning spent in the frost bitten woods. 

“Hey, sleepy,” he moves to whisper into her hair, knowing he won’t wake her unless he tries. It’s not like her to fall asleep like this, once she’s up she’s usually up, but last night had been rough. She’d insisted on staying up, cheek pressed against the widow much like it was now. He’d sat with her for a while, bringing her tea and carefully trying to entice her into picking up a book. When it’d become clear she wasn’t having any of it he’d reluctantly shuffled off to bed, but even so, he’d had to stifle dozens of yawns hunkered down in the bush.

He knows it’s not a good idea, he has firewood to haul and chop, repairs to make on the shed, but he leans down farther and gathers her in his arms, hoisting her off the window seat. The trip to the bed is mercifully short, a couple of shuffled steps, now that they’ve moved the bed out of the loft. He settles her in, murmuring quietly. She’ll sleep better here than by the drafty window.

He stokes the fire and sets the percolator on the burner before stripping off his outer layers and joining her in bed. It’s an impulsive decision, one he’s sorely missed being able to make now that New York was nothing but a distant memory. They’d spent so many mornings like this making up for lost time, and now all they had was time. It’s an irony not lost on him.

She mumbles in her sleep and he reaches with a now warm hand to brush the side of her face. It’s still new to him, being this tender with her. The motions, however, are well practiced, worn into his memory with thousands of repetitions made at times like this. “I’m right here,” he mutters back, sliding closer as she reaches for him, not quite awake enough to understand he’s returned to her.

Her fingers clench, holding fast to the fabric of his shirt and he pulls her to his chest, tucking her body against his, drawing heat from her usually chilled frame. 

“Will,” she whines small and inconsequential and he soothes her wordlessly, hushing her until her grip relaxes and she sighs. “I want to go home.”

He lets the comment slip by, agreeing would bring tears, dissent would bring an argument. Both, like the desire, are futile. Ever the pragmatist he understands this, aches with the knowledge, but holds it in check, leaves her to her yearning as he lets his eyes slip shut, content enough knowing that they’re both here, safe and well fed, at least for now.


End file.
